Udder Dust

Sometimes I think of how hardly alive you are at all. Dodging bullets. Dodging raindrops. December's here, and this rattling can, Of a group "home" (we call a home) can't stay warm. There are no colors. The world feels dusty. The thoughts that swim in & out make a traitor out of me. Suspend myself from the ceiling and watch us all live. I break and slip porcelain plates. Abandoned. Restrained. Clinking chain. Move to the same motions. I stare back at the clock. How do I convince you I'm living? Creeping smile, dry lips close. I entertain thoughts that lull my mind. Just sitting here in my head (free reign for my brain). This place is the fly that won't stop following me.